


to bring about spring

by asrielter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark!Jon, F/M, I've tried to make it angsty but it ended up in fluff, s8 fix-it of sorts, well - his death had SOME effect on him here at least - but he's not violent or brutal at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 11:00:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21506785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asrielter/pseuds/asrielter
Summary: Set a few years after the show ending, when Jon has finally come back to Winterfell. There's a lot going unspoken between Jon and Sansa, and one night an old ritual — sex magic, offered to the old gods so they'll make it spring — gives them a chance to cross the line between them.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 177
Collections: I recognize the show has made a decision...but given that it's a stupid-ass decision I've elected to ignore it.





	to bring about spring

The castle is quieter than it ever is, tonight, on the Feast of the Earth. Everybody, high- and lowborn, drunken under the moonlight offering their fires and their dancing and their sweat and their fucking to the old gods so that they’ll truly bring about spring. So that it will last longer than a two-month spell, like the last one. The darkness outside the windows of Sansa’s solar holds promise; the darkness inside of it holds a chill, as she looks at Jon pouring her wine. He won’t look at her; he can’t. She knows this, and tempts him anyway — or perhaps, herself.

They might be the only two souls in the entire keep; and they’re spending their time pointedly talking about lawmaking, as if it were any other night. As if the air in the room didn’t feel tight, or the nape of Sansa’s neck didn’t colour with heat when she meets Jon’s grey eyes over her cup. As if every minute didn’t feel like an age of wasted time.

“Mother hated nights such as this,” she says, sipping her wine. “Shut herself in her chambers. Prayed for it to be over, I’d imagine.”

“Aye. Well. She was of the South.” His lips form a tight line. He doesn’t like to discuss Catelyn Stark.

“Mmh. I’m not.” There’s a sultriness in her voice that makes Jon’s eyes snap to hers. “We could…” Jon’s heart stops beating. “We could get out there, under the stars.” She speaks slowly. He’s not sure if it’s the wine, but it makes him think of how she would taste all the same. “We could wear a disguise. A mason’s tunic, a maid’s dress.”

“Sansa.” Inside his mouth, his tongue reflexively grazes his canine teeth, like Ghost does when he’s tense. Does she know? That he’d do anything, everything, for her. That he’s less of a man than ever, on a night such as this. He wants to hunt her. He wants to—

“Jon,” she calls back. Nobody else, he thinks not for the first time. Nobody else says his name like she does. “Jon. Do you not want to bring about spring?”

_I would bring about spring with ye this winter and for all winters to come_ , he thinks. He wants to say: Your husband-to-be stands between us. He wants to throw himself at her feet and kiss the fur-lined hem of her dress. He wants to take her in the starlight. He wants to rip out her intended’s throat with his teeth, and he hasn’t even met the man yet.

She sets aside her cup and leisurely takes the jewellery out of her hair, long white fingers hypnotic in the low firelight. She stands, and goes to put her gold ornaments in a box. He hears the lid close with a thud and then she’s smoothing her heavy skirts with her palms, then she’s offering her hand to him.

Her voice is clear when she says: “I know where the maids keep the fresh laundry.”

He should say: It’s madness. He should say: It’s cruelty. But therein lies the catch. There’s a dark whisper in his heart that tells him that if this hurts him, it hurts her too. And if that is all they can share, he’ll take it. In her eyes he sees she knows this as well; so he takes her hand.

She leads him down some narrow stairs to the end of the corridor, stairs he’d never taken nor noticed; down, in a spiral that never seems to end, small stone steps too small for his feet, hardly visible in the feeble light from the candle she’s carrying, and he has to take care not to tumble forward and crush her. Did she choose this path because it's the quickest? Did she choose it because it’s so dark? Did she choose it because she knows, somehow, that the further down the steps they go, the more he steps into his own darkness?

Then suddenly there’s a small door, a corridor, and a great hall with whitewashed walls, all smelling of fresh linen and soap. There’s something strange and dreamlike about it, like he used to know the place, but Jon feels keenly that this is another memory the Red God didn’t see fit for him to bring back from the dead. It sets his teeth on edge, fills him with the familiar rage he so intimately knows. Sansa isn’t aware of it: she’s looking through the piles of bedclothes and aprons until she finds the woolen clothes she was looking for.

“Here!” she calls, when she’s extracted an appropriate tunic for him as well as a long, plain dress for herself. He approaches her in long, unhurried strides. A part of his mind is aware of Ghost, hunting in the woods outside.

Jon steps into her space and picks the cloth from her hand. “This?” he asks, turning it over to examine it. He can see in the corner of his eye how the air from his mouth displaces the soft tendrils of hair over her ear, he’s so close now. She doesn’t move, but her chest heaves with long, deep breaths. He lingers a moment longer, pretending to be interested in the garment, and secretly listening for the small noises escaping her nose and mouth. “Should we wear them, then?” he asks, only to hear the breath catch in her throat, before he takes a step back that has her instinctively throw her head behind, chin up, throat exposed and mouth parted. He could take her then. _Damn the ritual, take her here_ , an instinct tells him, but she’s already turning her back to him and taking off her belt, which she sets over a pile of laundry, then divesting herself of her robe, which slides off her shoulders to reveal her kirtle. She unpins the oversleeves without a word, and Jon  _ should _ be undressing, but he steps forward once more, trapping her between himself and the table, his mouth hovering her right ear so that he can look down her front. Her hands have stilled where they were unpinning her piece; trembling, they put aside the cloth and pins where she’d placed the belt. His hands take to unlacing her kirtle, a slow and patient work — and he finds he  _ can _ be patient, with her hair pressed against his chest, her head rolled back so that the top of it rests on his collarbone, a sweet warmth enveloping them both. Oh, to do this forever. He grins in satisfaction when she gasps, surprised at his sudden grasping of her dress at her hips. “Gods, Jon, your hands-” she whispers, but he moves forward, lifting the kirtle and making Sansa raise her arms to take it off. He steps back, admiring her in only her chemise, but no words about her beauty escape his throat. He can’t utter them; he wouldn’t know where to begin. Besides, it would be the courteous thing to tell her that the glimpse of flesh he got when her hair was caught in the kirtle would be enough to make him go to war for her again, and he’s not feeling courteous now, not when there’s so much unspoken between them, not when they’re crossing this line together.

Sansa turns and steps outside the robe that had pooled at her feet, gracefully picks it up and folds it. _Always the lady_ , he thinks, despite himself filled with a fondness that threatens to break his heart.

When she is done, she turns her attention back to him.

Her hands touch delicately at his leather jerkin, examining it, and he lets her take it off him gently, his hands coming up to rest at her waist but tenderly, and by all the gods he never thought he could feel like this, feral and tamed at once, all because of this woman whose pretty, full lips are parted, whose cheeks are coloured, whose fingers are determined and inexperienced on him. She’s taking his clothes off and his mind, treacherous, impossibly conjures the image of her, standing much like this in front of him, snow in her hair as he cloaks her. But no, no, he’s come to her much too late from his self-imposed exile, has he not? Now her small council has made a proper selection of nobles for her to marry, and his name doesn’t figure on the list, and what has he to offer her? No lands, and the threat of his blood.

“There,” she says when her hands slide under the layer of leather and up the planes of his chest, to his shoulders, letting the garment slide off him. Her chin tilts up, her mouth a hair away from his. He can feel the warmth of her breath on his lips. He can feel the warmth of blood on Ghost’s tongue, his tongue, his wolf tongue. He steps back.

She looks down, smiling in private self-mockery, and shakes her head as she goes to wear the dress she’d got for herself.

Sansa leads Jon through the godswood, cold and dark, to the North gate and out. Out, where everything is life and laughter and bonfires, group dances and people coupling under the stars. _The world is strange tonight_ , Sansa thinks. It doesn’t feel like her life at all: a much greater thing inhabits her now, free and primal and godly, in communion with her people and the spirits and the fire.

She turns to Jon, eyes sparkling, smiling joyfully. “Take my hands!” she commands, and he does. His hands are hot and dry to the touch, strong and bigger than hers; his thumb covers the entire back of her hand. She pulls him to the nearest bonfire, still alive and cracking, though the people who lit it are gone. There’s traces of them on the ground, though, footprints that speak of dancing and running round. When she looks at his face, Jon is still looking down, where there’s cups of ale left over. Why did the gods make him so stubborn and so handsome? What torture is his face, the long bones of it northern, yet somehow refined in a way nobody else around her is — does he know she could die because of the skin that stretches on his cheekbone? Does he feel the gods tonight?

She tugs at his arms and he looks at her again, serious though she’s smiling. She tugs at his arms again, this time curtseying as well as she can without losing her grip on his hands. He smiles at that, and curtseys back.

Somehow, his feet remember something of the dance she leads him into — not enough to be graceful, but he’s skilled enough to make sure she doesn’t get thrown into the fire, and unskilled enough that they end up laughing more than they complete any figures. Her braids slap into him once, when she finishes a turn to be gathered into his arms; he doesn’t let go of her for a long moment, and a warmth blooms in her stronger than that of the fire. She wants him so much she can hardly breathe.

He presses his forehead to her, and the words he murmurs into her ear turn her stomach and make her want to scream. “I’ll get back to the freefolk after this,” he says, lips warm against the shell of her ear, the intimacy a mockery of that of a lover’s, “I don’t want to, Sansa, but I can’t stay after tonight. I can’t— I won’t not have you.”

“No, you won’t,” she responds, extricating herself from his arms and facing him. Gods, she’s angry. “No, perhaps I should offer your corpse to the gods instead. Reckon they’d take the sacrifice, won’t they?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” he spits out bitterly, and Sansa stares at his face before spinning away from him, around the bonfire, and laughing. Finally, finally, a moment of truth!

“Gods!” she exclaims, looking to the clear stars above her. “I offer ye my anger and my spite and my resentment. I’m tired of all my compassion. I’m tired of smothering my rage in understanding. ‘Oh, but Jon needs the time alone. Oh, Jon feels guilty about the war and sad about his exhilement, so he won’t come to me. Oh, Jon can feel  _ useful _ now and not think about his beastliness, so far as he is, so afraid of the gods and himself because he wanted me before he knew, when he still thought I was his sis—’” He surges forward at that, eyes burning, his hands at her throat as if to catch the words. He doesn’t press his thumbs down on the smooth, milky skin; no, even in his anger, the pads of his fingers caress her reverently as she breaks into laughter again.

“Is that the word you don’t want to hear? I thought you’d have made your peace with it, at least within yourself.” She brings her hands up to the sides of his face, her fingers gently combing through the hair at his temples, feeling the warmth of him against her skin, greater to her than the warmth of the fire at her back. Suddenly, her cruelty is defeated: she doesn’t have the heart to use vulgar words to describe what’s between them. Instead, she offers herself, all of herself, no weapons now: “I know I did. A long time ago. Before you left for Dragonstone.”

He closes his eyes, and Sansa knows then from his pained expression that he’s forming a decision, and that again it won’t be in her favour, so she brings her face forward and kisses him. She feels him exhale through his nose and then, then, he opens his mouth. He tastes like the wine they’d shared, and he tastes like a man, and his is not like the mouths of men who’d kissed her before — no, the taste of him is strange and pleasant and good. His mouth is silky and warm as his tongue finds hers, sending a thrill through her body she never imagined before — the pleasure of it heady and intoxicating. _We can bring about a spring to last us years_ , she thinks. Sansa is filled with the certainty of it, as Jon’s tongue invades her mouth again, as everything inside her seems to open up to him like a hundred blooming flowers. Her hands find the opening of his tunic and her palm sets on his chest. Her stomach flutters for there’s hair there, dark hair she’d only ever glimpsed at, tickling her palm.

His fingers reach for her tresses, and he unbraids them reverently as she kisses his face, sweet little kisses on his cheekbone, his temple, his chin, his lips, his jaw; she lets her head fall back following the motion of his hands as they comb through her unbound hair when he’s done, a thick curtain of long, wavy red hair glistening in the firelight. His eyes are filled with it, in love as he is, she realises suddenly, desire flaring up inside her. In love as  _ she _ is.

She kisses him again, sure of her movements now, her tongue licking the inside of his mouth. He emits a groan, deep and animalesque, which her body responds to instinctively, arousal pooling low at her belly. She responds with a similar sound as he places open-mouthed kisses to the side of her neck, causing him to snap his hips against hers. A moan escapes her lips, and she frantically undoes the side-lacing on her dress, eager to feel him over her, against her, inside her. When the garment is loose enough, she takes his hand and laces her fingers through his to go to sit on a patch of grass together.

His eyes search her face, flitting without consequence from her steady gaze to her open mouth to her hairline, and back to her eyes again, so blue and clear, without a shade of uncertainty.

He guides her down to lay on the grass then, the ground cold, for which he murmurs he’s sorry, and he wishes they’d brought furs; but Sansa laughs gently, the tip of her nose bumping against the tip of his.

Jon’s hand takes hold of her ankle, a reassuring hold, then it travels slowly up her calf, his fingertips moving back and forth tracing paths that make her skin feel like it’s singing, somehow, and again she feels godly, as he traces fiery lines along the tender skin of her inner thigh, godly, as her dress falls back over her raised knee, godly, when his fingers meet the curls at the juncture of her legs. His caresses are so gentle, at first, that he doesn’t even touch the skin there; yet she feels on fire just from the stimulation provided by his fingertip swirling around her curls, swirling in a dance he’s more apt to than the one they’d shared earlier, until he finds that sweet spot that takes all air from her lungs. He’s reclining on his side next to her; only his hand is touching her, and she’s desperate to touch him as well, make him _feel_ , but soon his circling caresses cause her to lose all rational thought. The world is reduced to Jon and her and the pleasure mounting inside her.

Suddenly, Sansa clutches at Jon’s free arm, gasping: “Jon— I—”

“I know,'' he murmurs hot in her ear, his finger constantly caressing her sweet spot, pressing down gently, “sweetling, Sansa, let it happen, let go, please my sweet, let go,” his breath tickling so pleasurably at her ear, and when Sansa does let go, something  _ explodes _ inside of her. She realises moments later that she’s let out a wordless cry, her half-raised leg kicking up. When she fully comes down, Jon is laughing, so handsome that he looks more like a hero from a song, there, no mockery in his fire-lit features.

They exchange a look, long and dark and knowing all, and he grabs her face with both hands to kiss her full on the mouth. She sinks her hand in the hair at the nape of his neck and rolls into him, bringing her body closer to hers, wanting to feel more of him, all of him, as his tongue slides against her so  _ deliciously _ she might get drunk on it. _Oh, gods, prolong the night_ , she prays, _make it last so that I can kiss this man forever_ , and she would, she would kiss him forever, sweet headstrong clever stupid Jon, her Jon, damn him if he thinks for a second she’s letting him go, but then he’s licking into her ear and that thought is gone, all thought is banished, there’s only his name on her lips and his hot breath  _ illuminating _ the wet paths of his tongue, no, yes, that’s not the word, but it _is_ , isn’t it? Jon, Jon, _Jon_ , his name is a moan in her throat now.

The bulge in his pants is pressing against her now, and she wants him even though she expects pain, wants him to possess her, so she begs “Jon, take me”. His hips roll against her in instinctive response.

He groans; “Not yet, darling,” he replies between kisses, his mouth on her neck and collarbone and shoulder, his hand caressing her breast through the fabric of her dress while the other grips the back of her thigh, holding her against him. She moves her hips, looking for friction against his leg, and the growl that he lets out is more wolf than man.

He rolls her down on her back again, giving her one last long kiss on the mouth as he bunches up the fabric of her dress to gather around her hips, so that she’s completely exposed now, before getting half-up on his knees. She moves to follow him, but he shakes his head no. Confused, she sets back on her elbows, looking at him as he sets himself between her legs and leaves small kisses on the inside of her thigh; then his mouth is on her, and it’s almost too much to look at.

She feels his fingers part her, and she’s almost sure he says something, but he’s licking at her slowly and gently, sweet long circular licks, and undular, and to the sides; and through the steady, repetitive motions, a pleasure so shocking meets his tongue, that her chest feels awfully tight, so tight, so nice oh it feels so nice, Jon’s tongue, gods, licking at her, it should feel obscene and it’s  _ divine _ , instead, divine, white-hot pleasure mounting steadily inside her, her hands in Jon’s hair and her thighs pressing on the sides of his head and he’s not relenting, one finger exploring her opening, “Gods, Jon, I’m ready I’m ready I’m—,” two fingers slipping inside her, his tongue on her, her hand gripping his hair so hard she’s sure it must hurt, she can’t let go, a litany of “yes, yes yes yes,” escaping her lips, godly, she feels, ah! For several seconds she feels impossibly like being atop a mountain, and then she’s slowly descending as if carried by a soft wind, pleasure leaving her tingling and tender like never before. Jon leaves a final kiss to her cunny and comes up to the level of her face. Sansa brings him down to her mouth, kissing him, tasting herself on his lips and his tongue, blushing a little still.

Her legs are still parted, and Jon between them; wordlessly, she tugs at the lacing of his breeches, so Jon kisses her again, devotedly, before asking if she’s sure, to which she laughs but little, nodding through dozens of kisses, the cold earth under her back forgotten, tugging his breeches down to leave him as exposed as she is.

She caresses his buttocks, up to his lower back under his shift, revelling in the sensation of his hard muscle under her palms, until she’s holding him completely, her hands curling around the top of his shoulders.

“Please, Jon,” she whispers in his ear, just to the side of her mouth.

He kisses her jaw and his fingers part her again; this time, she feels the tip of him seeking entrance, and she braces herself against him, the animalistic desire to have him warring with the fear of pain. “Please,” she says again, unsure of what she’s pleading for.

He enters her slowly, too uncomfortably slow for him, too uncomfortably wide for her; but then she hears him say “Breathe, my love,” and she could  _ cry _ because he’s never called her that, but breathe she does, and little by little she finds her body is adjusting to him, sinking ever so gently into her, no trace of the searing pain she was expecting.

When he’s full into her, he stills, waiting for her, mouthing sweet kisses to her cheek and ear and neck; until Sansa moves, and brings her bent legs up, knees resting at the side of his ribs. The change is clearly pleasurable to him as well because he groans, and the groan elicits a fluttering inside her that makes her wetter, somehow, so she remembers again to be vocal and whimpers. She rocks her hips tentatively and he starts moving again too; slowly, to find a rhythm together, as she moans and learns the feel and shape of him inside her, how he stretches her and how  _ good _ it feels when the tip of him hits a spot deep within her; Sansa finds herself chasing the sensation, spurring him on with her hips, moans turning into little meaningless exclamations, mingling with his groans and the wet sounds their bodies make together, which excite her a great deal more. His skin is now sweaty under her palms, and sweaty at his hairline, too, where she kisses him, tasting the salt of him, wondering if she tastes the same when he kisses her neck, biting her almost, but gently, and Sansa is unaware of any embarrassment when she asks, “Mmh, yes, Jon, like that, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” because it feels so right, so beautiful, this is how it was meant to be, this is how she was supposed to feel, what she was born to be, a she-wolf in the night, _fuck me_ , and by all the gods he does, _we’ll bring about a spring to last us years_.

Her pleasure now isn’t like it felt before; it’s muted, yet somehow no lesser; Sansa stares at the sky above them as he spends himself on the grass, and she grasps at her pleasure and the beauty of the stars not to feel saddened by it.

Jon helps her up on her feet when they’re recomposed, and wordlessly he pulls her tight to him in a desperate kiss. She smiles when their mouths separate, unwilling to let him go, chasing his kiss again. His arms are so strong around her, so sure, Sansa never felt so safe and happy in her life.

“Come,” she commands at his ear, and together they retrace the path they’d made earlier. Through the godswood, to the laundry room, where they leave the dirty clothes they’d borrowed in a pile of clothes to wash, and they pick up their own garments. “No!”, she says when he starts lacing his jerkin, her voice alight with joy. She picks up her garments and has him take the candle, for her arms are too full; up the stairs they go again, and Jon would be utterly lost without Sansa telling him where to exit. He almost doesn’t recognise the corridor leading to her room, but when he does, every step threatens to stop his heart. It’s over now, a few more steps, they’ll reach her room and he’ll have to go. He’ll have to, he must, though he’s sure this time it’ll break his heart so thoroughly it’ll start bleeding.

Gods, he’s at least glad she’s dismissed her Queensguard for the night, as she asks him to take the key she carries with a ribbon tied around her neck — _her breasts_ , he thinks, painfully, and _Snow, for fuck’s sake_ , — and when he opens the door, she’s the one to push it close with her back, before dropping her clothes in a chair. He imitates her, unsure of himself, and his arms are filled with her again. Yes, his heart will bleed to his death. Oh, he wants to howl to the stars. How did he ever think he could play this as a game? She’s warm and soft flesh and sweet in her arms, kissing him like the night might never end, slowly guiding him to her bed. He takes her wrists from behind his neck and detangles her from his body, hoping she’ll read the plea in his eyes.

“Sansa, I can’t—” he starts, but her hand covers his mouth before he can say anything more. She’s smiling. “Yes, you can. In fact, you will take your shift off, and mine too, and come to bed.”

_No_ , his mind says, but her hands are grabbing at his shift, and suddenly he must see her naked, just a look, he’ll have a look and go, he thinks madly, lifting her shift off her and throwing it across the room, making her laugh again.

She takes his hand and leads him to her bed, and like she said he would he follows, left speechless by the beauty of her form in the dying firelight, the glint of her red hair, the curve of her ass, her small perfect breasts and if only he could  _ kiss _ them, he’s sure he’ll die a happy man, he will.

She lifts the covers for him to get under and nestles against him as soon as he’s inside the bed, shivering from the cold sheets, the furs not warming her enough yet. Her head finds refuge under his chin, her hands fisted at his chest. He drapes the furs over her, making sure she’s well covered, thinking, _Now I’ll say I’m going_ , but staying another minute to caress her hair, and another to take a grass blade out of it, and another, until she stops shivering, another minute with his arm around her waist, yes, one more with her hand splayed on his chest.

“Jon?”

“Mmh?”

Her voice sounds sleepy. “You’re not going.”

He feels confused. “Did I say I’m going?”

“No, but you’re thinking that you must. You’re not.”

He begins a protest, but one of her hands comes up to close his lips with a finger pressed to them, and finally, as if it takes much effort, she lifts her head from its position under his chin to look at him.

“You’re not going. Unless you don’t want to marry me, in which case, you can go to the Lands of Always Winter for all I care.” The last words are spoken in jest, this he knows; but his heart had skipped a beat at the proposal, if it was a proposal at all.

“But… your lords…,” he says, extricating some hairs from the top of her head that were caught in his beard.

She blushes at that, as if embarrassed by the gracelessness of the moment, and the pretty colour somehow highlights how tired she looks. Exhausted. He feels a possessiveness at that —  _ he _ tired her,  _ he _ took her tonight,  _ he _ made her peak, and how glorious she looked then, yes, he’d looked his fill, took great joy in it too.

“My lords know I haven’t accepted any of the names they brought forward. I only consented to marry, but Jon, it will be you or no one else.”

“Can it be?”

“I was waiting for you to ask me! But I kept waiting, and waiting, and it seemed you never would, yet I was so sure you wanted me…”

“Aye. Gods, Sansa, always.”

She smiles at that, darting forward to give him a kiss.

“But Sansa, I don’t have anything to give you. No lands, and a rotten bloodline.”

Sansa scratches his beard pensively, as if this were a habit of hers, to caress his face so intimately. “I don’t need lands. I am Queen of the greatest kingdom in Westeros. And Jon, you bring me Stark blood. The blood of Winterfell. There’s none but you who can give me Starklings.”

Hope blooms in his chest at that, and some arousal too, his cock already set on _giving her Starklings_. “And you’ll make the lords see it your way, I’m sure.”

She smiles and kisses him again. “Aye.”

“So this was your plan then? Why didn’t you just  _ tell _ me before?”

“Because, my love, you can be an unreasonable, stubborn beast if you wish it. And I wanted to have this, at least, in case you ended up deciding to leave me again. For the third time.” The melancholia in her tone takes the edge off her words, but he feels the cut of them nonetheless.

He kisses the top of her head, his fingers tracing circles on her lower back.

“Do you forgive me for not being completely honest with you tonight?”

“Mmh, let’s see.” He kisses her shoulder, her collarbone, her neck. “Yes. Do you forgive me for not confessing before how much I love you?”

Jon hears her breath catch at that. He plants a long, wet kiss under her ear. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she replies, her voice more awake now. He looks at her then, blue eyes sparkling. “Jon, you must know. You  _ must _ know how I love you. For  _ years _ now. Perhaps I’ve been in love with you since the moment we met again.”

He grabs a fistful of her hair and kisses her mouth, finding her open and ready, her tongue sliding into his mouth at once. It’s a heady thing, now, kissing her like so, when her skin is naked and warm against his, naked and warm and _his_ , yes, his!

“When?”

“When?” she asks, re-emerging from the kiss, not understanding his meaning.

“When will we be married?”

“I— I’m not sure. As soon as the moon is propitious for a wedding, if you like.”

“Aye, I like. I hope the moon’s propitious tomorrow night.” She laughs, and he kisses the underside of her jaw.

“I think we should sleep,” she says.

“I think we should fuck,” he replies, making her laugh again.

“In the morning?”

“In the morning.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I hope that was good. If you liked it, if you didn't, please let me know in the comments! I'm writing up another Jonsa project and it would mean the world to me if you let me know what works and what doesn't, because it's been so long since I've written anything.  
> [Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.]  
> Oh, and if you're interested in the dress Sansa's wearing, it's a Burgundian style gown! I got my information on what goes on underneath it from here (https://www.scribd.com/document/90486408/Burg-Und-Ian-Costume) because I am a nerd for fashion history.


End file.
